


(a pinned butterfly is) nothing like a butterfly at all

by Anonymous



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Hurt/Comfort, I will argue till I'm blue that this is just canon-compliant, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Mind Games, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26654092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Archie has gotten better at reading between those neat lines lately, public Lodge respectability vs private Lodge grit, Lodge benevolence vs Lodge will to thrive by any means necessary. Whether he canlivebetween them remains to be seen.He has to try.OR2x19 episode coda - after his kidnapping, Archie begins to make amends.
Relationships: Archie Andrews/Hiram Lodge
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21
Collections: Anonymous





	(a pinned butterfly is) nothing like a butterfly at all

Archie had held the words in his mind so tightly, everything he needed to say to Mr. Lodge. Played out the potential conversations in his head, counting out explanations and pleas and the most pathetic, desperate promises to the rhythm of the headache he's had ever since Nick St. Clair's fist connected with his temple for the first time (and the second time, and the -).

But now that the words are out, now that he's somehow found himself apologizing for his _own_ kidnapping, his own beating, his own cowardice and the lack of convictions that brought him to this point - now he's out of momentum. 

Now he's not sure what to expect, watching Mr. Lodge from the corner of his eye like a prey animal, frozen as Hiram stands, stretches, lifts the decanter from the table between them to fix a drink (Archie thinks the scent of rum will always bring him back here, probably). This peace feels uneasy; he still has his sins to make up for. He can't trust the ground beneath him, even this morning he'd _thought_ \- it hurts to know he'd been so blind even hours ago, had touched the scar across his palm and thought _family,_ _loyalty, purpose,_ complacent with his own flaws. 

Flaws now evidenced across his body, so many cuts and bruises for anyone to see. If he was Jughead he might find that poetic, some kind of literary metaphor.

Maybe Hiram does. Maybe that's what he's thinking about now, watching Archie over the rim of his glass.

Archie watches the fire and waits. 

_(The problem with teaching teenagers,_ Ms. Grundy - Geraldine - Jennifer - _she_ had once told him, covering his lips with callused fingertips, _is that you think every little thought you have is worth sharing with the class._ Nobody could accuse him of rejecting constructive criticism.)

"Well," the tumbler makes a quiet, crisp noise on the tabletop when Hiram finally sets it aside and does something - braces a hand on the back of Archie's chair, crowding into his space like it was Hiram's all along. "Let me see how they damaged my protege." 

Archie knows not to pull away (knows not to lean in, either) but he can't quite stop himself from flinching, like his body's been anticipating a slap that doesn't come. "Sir - you don't have to -" 

"Nonsense, you're hurt. I need to know how badly." It's not _quite_ the sports medic persona he uses on the wrestling team at meets (the brusque, competent way he has of wrapping a weak ankle or re-seating a dislocated shoulder). But it's close enough that Archie can tell himself he knows how to respond, mostly. He knows what this is (mostly). 

What it is: cool fingertips tilting his head each way, Archie a life-sized doll in Hiram's hands (another symbolism, Jughead). He closes his eyes so he'll stop anticipating, stop feeling the urge to turn his face into Hiram's palm on his cheek, like a kicked dog nosing for Lodge Family forgiveness. Like the pet he sometimes feels like, prowling The Pembrooke for scraps of - something. 

Hiram's pet, maybe even more than Veronica's. Maybe. Once he'd even been _a good boy_ \- but now that word _protege,_ still ringing in his ears, stings like a rebuke. Archie still has penance to do. He's not so idealistic he doesn't know what killing a man, even the Black Hood, will take out of him. (What _not_ killing has meant he's held back. He's in debt.)

And yet Hiram still said it. _His protege._

Archie is transparent, pathetically obvious (he's _trembling)._ Maybe if he focuses on the pain he won't - but it's been so much. Today has been _so_ much. 

Hiram sighs, or just exhales. He doesn't say anything about the unshed tears making Archie's eyelashes clump, wet under the pad of his thumb. Archie wants to turn his face away, but he won't. That's part of this, he's learned: for better or worse, being _seen._ Pinned down like a butterfly to a board. 

(Maybe that's the attraction - maybe _that's_ what Archie is addicted to, being known. Being judged and addressed and improved and always so...personally. Hiram Lodge only buys bespoke, after all.)

How could Archie have thought he'd get away with holding out? Even his loyalty to his father had begun to fray, eventually. 

"It's nothing that won't heal, Archie." Hiram rules after a long moment. Archie can't read what's in his voice, can't tell if he just means the _scars_ or - hope is a poison pill. "Your wholesome, symmetrical, all-American good looks are safe.

"For my daughter," he adds, like an afterthought. Like a tidy lie of omission. Archie has gotten better at reading between those neat lines lately, public Lodge respectability vs private Lodge grit, Lodge benevolence vs Lodge will to thrive by any means necessary. Whether he can _live_ between them remains to be seen. 

He has to try.

"For the Lodge family, sir." His voice hardly shakes. The cut on his hand had taken a long time to heal and the scar stands out, still, bright. Archie offers it up, palm flat - _read me my new destiny, fortune teller. you rewrote my life line._

Hiram watches him a long moment, opaque. When he shifts, Archie thinks for a moment (flushed, red, doesn't even need a mirror to know his complexion has betrayed him) he's going to actually take his hand - instead, he sets an empty tumbler, cold cut glass, into his fingers. 

"You're high-quality raw material, Archie. I know I'm not wrong to invest in you." He pours.

Archie drinks automatically, feeling light-headed before it touches his lips. 


End file.
